Difficult to Bear
by Yvi
Summary: No one ever said victory would be easy. Slash.


Disclaimer: Not mine, naturally.

Warning: Here be slash. If you don't like the idea of Gabriel snogging someone who doesn't wear skirts, please check yourself.

Notes: Peter Cuppin. A flash in a pan. ­The poor fellow has about five seconds of screen time and is only mentioned once, when Gabriel writes home about the death of his friend. Naturally, I couldn't just leave it at that. Any historical inaccuracies contained herein are my own mistakes.

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How long has it been since they left Charleston—six months, eight, ten, a year? It all blends together, mindless and murky as the mud they trudge through. Day after day after day after day, to the point that there's no reason to bother counting. March, fight, fall, brush yourself off if you're still able to stand, march, fight, fall... Gabriel can't think. This is _right_, he reminds himself, slightly guilty that he has to remind himself of such things. They are fighting for their God-given freedom and as long as they keep their fire and faith, nothing can crush them. The old assurances sound cracked and brittle in his head, worn almost to dust by such thorough repetition. At least it isn't raining anymore.

"There's not much hope for us, is there?" It isn't Gabriel who finally voices the question, but Peter Cuppin. The two of them, friends since long before the war, have stayed close to one another since Charleston. Several things have changed since then, and not only inside Gabriel's head. There are no longer enough tents to go around, so the soldiers take turns. It's their night now and although the tent is battered and lopsided, it's better than sleeping in the open. This is one of the few things they have to look forward to, and normally enough to raise one's spirits. When Peter slumps inside, half-sits, half-collapses beside Gabriel, fixes him with an uncharacteristically ironical gaze, and asks, it's obvious this novelty, like so many others, has worn off.

Gabriel blinks and tries to smile. "We've hardly been gone long at all," he says with false cheerfulness. "Plenty of things can still change." 

"Yes, but will they change for the better?"

The wispy beginnings of a beard creeping down Peter's face make him look peaked and younger instead of older. His eyes are glinting with a bellicosity he never displays on the battlefield. So cool under fire, marching and shooting with methodical deliberation, contrary to the brashness supposedly indicated by his bright hair. "They'll get me," he muttered once with a self-mocking laugh, releasing the first hints of bitterness. "With this on my head, I won't last long. I'm practically begging the British to shoot me."

"They might," Gabriel falters, trying to overpower the unrelenting voice in his head. _What are you doing?_, it demands, trying with all its might to push the words off his tongue. _You're supposed to be the fierce one, not me. Why are you doubting while I'm not?_ "We're doing what's right," he adds decisively, "and I for one am prepared to persist for as long as it may take." _Liar_, chides the voice. _You don't really want to keep fighting for who knows how long. Don't you miss the way things were before the British took Charleston? Don't you miss Thomas? Margaret? Susan? Don't you miss your father?_

Peter seems to hear it, or he catches the look in Gabriel's eyes. "Come, you can't be as confident as you pretend," he accuses.

"I'm not pretending anything," flares Gabriel. "And at least I'm trying to be hopeful instead of brooding."

"If that's the case, I don't suppose I'm brooding any more than you are pretending," Peter snaps back. "I can't help thinking that it does seem impossible," he interrupts as Gabriel begins to retort. "I want to win, but I also want to go home. And it's unlikely we'll be able to do both—don't say you haven't thought about it." He pauses and scowls down at his hands. "We don't even _have_ a home anymore, now that Charleston's been taken." 

"You shouldn't think of these things," Gabriel says firmly. 

Peter's eyes flash. "And what should I think of? Winning? I just told you it seems impossible to me, and I can't make myself think otherwise. Either we win the war and die trying or we go home defeated. What are our chances of succeeding on both grounds? Do you think I haven't tried to rid myself of these thoughts? Do you think I enjoy thinking them? My God, I wish I could delude myself the way you do. I used to believe victory was certain, but now everyone's begun to doubt, even you, I know it, though you try not to let on. You probably don't even realize it yourself. And if even you have started to doubt..." He trails off, the scowl dropping from his face as his chin drops into his hand.

They sit in silence for several moments, and when Gabriel speaks again there is no voice in his head blaring words to the contrary. "You're right," he admits, unconsciously using the same somber tone his father employs when saying things of importance. "It's hard and painful, not an easy victory, but it will only be harder if we lose faith." 

"Aye, faith," Peter mutters expressionlessly. "You seem to have some to spare. What would you have for it?"

Gabriel has no ready reply for that. He looks at Peter's hair, smooth and red and caught back with a scrap of leather, and thinks of the remark from months before. Not sure of what else to do, he takes the redhead's hand and pulls him near, the way he used to do for his siblings when they were frightened or sad. Peter still has his battlefield face on, but he moves closer. "I don't want be a sacrifice on the path to glory; I want to be there when it comes." He slips one of his arms under Gabriel's and leans until his head is on the other soldier's shoulder. Unprepared for the gesture, Gabriel flinches, and Peter jerks backward so rapidly Gabriel feels a breeze from it. 

"I'm not about to weep." He stares defiantly at Gabriel, the old fire leaping defensively onto his face. "I just need something else to think about." One of his hands is still clasping Gabriel's. "You're my friend, so I've always thought. Now will you assist me or not?"

Slowly, Gabriel moves his other hand to rest on Peter's shoulder and either he's drawing him closer or Peter's drawing him closer or they're both moving slowly towards each other, but suddenly he hears himself saying, "Aye, you know I will," as if there's no other conceivable answer to be given, and he kisses Peter's cheek. He pauses for a long second, wondering what he's done and why it seems so different from a kiss he might give one of his sisters, wondering what Peter expects, why he did it to begin with, what will happen next. But Peter repeats the action on him and Gabriel can't for the life of him begin to comprehend the wave of relief that courses through him, although some recondite fragment of his mind whispers that some things are beyond comprehension. The whisper intensifies as Peter, not breaking the gaze for an instant, presses his lips to Gabriel's. 

It lasts for only the briefest of moments. When he withdraws, his face is serious and looks as thin and young as Gabriel is sure his own must. _You've defied your father_, the voice in his head reminds him, _you've killed or injured Lord knows how many men; surely this is no worse_, and for once Gabriel does not argue with it. Peter either hears or sees something indicating as much, as he smiles slightly, and then Gabriel finds his hands tangling in the fine strands of hair that have fallen free of their fastening. He lays his lips against the hollow of Peter's neck and listens curiously to the swift intake of breath the action evokes. Peter's hands are lacing around the back of his neck, holding his head in place; he can feel the redhead's breath catching in his chest. 

A few tremulous seconds later, Gabriel's spinning senses feel Peter's fingers begin carefully tracing down his back. When he lifts his head and pulls Peter into a proper kiss, he thinks he hears the latter slyly murmur, "Look, you have already given me faith." 

"We are doing what is right," Gabriel repeats, lips moving against Peter's skin, and Peter quietly laughs into his hair.

Suddenly, tent nights are occasions to anticipate again. During one of them, Gabriel catches himself running a hand over Peter's vivid hair and wondering, not for the first time, what would happen if one of them were to die. They never speak of it, well aware there is no way to relieve their worries completely. Instead, Gabriel will kiss Peter and the two of them will diligently banish such thoughts as best they can.

It happens at Elizabethtown. Dutifully aiming and firing again and again, Peter dips his eyelashes down to check his rifle, and it's time enough to take a bullet. He falls without a sound and Gabriel automatically dives down beside him, his own rifle forgotten. Bright red, incongruously neat hair is spilling over his fingers and he stares dumb and openmouthed at the far redder substance spilling onto the ground. In a moment as shattering as a hundred kegs of gunpowder all exploding at once, a plethora of impulses besieges him and he rips apart. Part of him wants to kiss Peter's forehead, or at least close his eyes, but the gunfire hasn't stopped with his world, and he jumps to his feet as a bullet whistles past his shoulder. 

He writes to Thomas, finally, knowing very well there is no way to fully express the depth of everything that has transpired. He talks of idle things and less idle things, and tells of Peter's fate in a few placid lines. At that point, he pauses, thinks of all the things he could say, that the idea of being able to say them all is as impossible as Peter's old fears, and resignedly adds a spectacularly inadequate sentence.

Simply: 

_His death has been difficult to bear._


End file.
